Archive of Our Own

Bepo wakes up on the second day. Law is just debating taking over Smoker's medbay, consequences be damned, when a groggy groan sends him scrambling to his friend's bedside.

"Bepo!" Law makes to sit on the bed before thinking better of it and dragging a chair close instead. He leans forward and grabs one fuzzy paw, gripping it tight with both hands. "Bepo, it's me. It's Law."

Beady eyes blink open, hazy and unfocused. At first, there's no recognition in them, and Law's breath catches. What did that damn rumble ball do to him? Not that Law wants to doubt Tony-ya - he has nothing but respect for the shapeshifting reindeer - and as he'd understood, the experiment had been Bepo's initiative, but as he spirals, panic takes hold. God, Law doesn't even have the Straw Hats' snail number memorized. It rests at the bottom of the sea somewhere off the coast of Winner Island, among the ruins of the Polar Tang's communications room. If something's wrong with Bepo that Law can't figure out–

Then Bepo blinks again and his eyes clear as his brain is catches up with what he's seeing. 

"Captain," he mumbles weakly.

Law very nearly bursts into tears.

It takes conscious effort not to, the pressure and heat behind his eyes sharp and oppressive. But Law can't. If he breaks down now, he's not sure he can pull himself back together. He does press his forehead to the paw he's holding, though, the relief washing over him so overwhelming his bones briefly cease bearing his weight. He slumps forward, eyes slipping closed, prompting a confused whine from Bepo.

"I'm fine," Law reassures him, raising his head and offering a wavering smile. With a firm squeeze, he frees one hand to cast a room around the two of them. "How are you feeling?"

Bepo's brow furrows slowly. "Woozy," he slurs after a moment, words sluggish as his tongue catches on his teeth. Then, "What happened?"

His vitals are strong, at least. Law scans his friend intently, wincing in sympathy at the echoes of pain that bleed through to him across the blue. While the sense originating from his Fruit examines the internal damage, his eyes check the external. Nothing new jumps out at him, just a steady current of pain and exhaustion. No wonder: Law had admittedly gone overboard trying to fix anything he could find, until there was absolutely nothing to do but wait for Bepo to wake up. In his defense, experimental medicine - especially the performance-enhancing kind, which is essentially what Tony-ya's rumble ball boils down to - is risky by nature. Law can hardly be blamed for being cautious. 

More importantly, the examination provides him the excuse he needs to not meet Bepo’s gaze. “You got us to White Hunter-ya’s ship as planned. You’ve slept for a day and a half.”

As Bepo processes this, Law lets his room drop, once again forced to admit that there’s nothing more to do no matter how much his hands itch to mend, to heal. He pats the mink’s paw before extricating his other hand as well, heading over to grab him a glass of water and some painkillers. (Still just the generic kind Smoker had blindly grabbed from the infirmary, sadly - Law sincerely doubts there’s anything much better on board, anyway.)

When he comes back, Bepo looks marginally more alert. “We're still on the ship,” he observes.

Law recognises that for the question it is. He remains silent until he's helped Bepo sit up and handed off the glass, then drops back in the chair. With the adrenaline draining, his bones weigh like lead. “Yeah.”

"He helped us," Bepo says in between sips. "Like you said."

Law chuckles without any real mirth behind it. Bepo hadn't said anything when Law fixated on finding Smoker as their best course of action, but Law could tell his friend doubted. And not without reason. While Law's relationship with Smoker - such as you can call it - has never been secret from his three closest friends, they hardly know the extent of it. Law may not be able to convincingly lie to the people who have known him for thirteen years, but he does cling to his privacy like a ravenous dog to a piece of meat. As far as the others know, Smoker is just a Navy goon Law’s been messing around with out of convenience, and to work out some frustration over the whole Warlord thing. 

No, Bepo had no reason to expect any Marine would help them now that Law’s no longer a Warlord, no matter what their prior relationship. But he hadn't objected. Law is glad for it; he's never enjoyed pulling rank, especially on the original three.

"Yeah," he agrees again, scrubbing a weary hand over his face. "His crew doesn't know," he adds as an afterthought. "Not even his nosy subordinate. Although I'm sure she suspects." The Captain is like that, annoyingly perceptive and far too tenacious. Law can only hope the voyage will be short enough and their getaway clean enough that she won't get the chance to meddle.

Bepo nods absently. Law can see his brain working even through the exhaustion and pain, sharp as ever. He’d expect nothing less from the world’s best navigator, but even so, he swells with pride. The warm feeling in his chest carries a strong undercurrent of appreciation, as is often the case when it’s Bepo; although he’s long since abandoned the religious ideals he was taught as a child, Law often finds himself wondering what he’s done to deserve someone like the mink. (Hell, perhaps the answer is ‘nothing’ and that’s why the world keeps hounding him. It sure would explain why his life feels like one big cosmic joke so damn often.)

“We’re going to Hachinosu,” Bepo says then, his raspy voice bringing Law back to reality. And he lands hard. 

It’s not a question; it doesn’t need to be. It’s the most logical next step for them to take - the only logical next step, truthfully. And Bepo was able to arrive at that conclusion despite his sorry state, which does more to convince Law that he’s okay than any test or scan could. In light of all that, Law has no trouble admitting to it. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “It’s another day and a half to get there, give or take.”

“And the vice admiral is taking us?” Bepo asks. 

Law supposes that’s a fair question. It’s one thing for Smoker to give them shelter, another to get directly involved with their affairs. Not to mention Law letting him. Whatever their relationship is, or whatever they want it to be, doesn’t erase the hard facts: Law and Bepo are fugitives of the highest order, worth well over three billion berries together, with at least one Admiral tasked with actively hunting them down. And Smoker is, despite everything, a servant of Justice. (What kind, exactly, Law has never asked, always telling himself he didn’t care enough, although that isn’t strictly true - he’s also not sure he wants to know.)

“Yeah,” Law says again, helpless to do more than shrug when Bepo’s surprised eyes turn to him. “I tried to talk him out of it. But he says he has… business thereabouts, anyway.” He lets distaste freely color his voice, still mad that he let that sentient steam cloud talk him into this. However good or logical the plan is. Sighing, Law rubs his face with both hands. “He’ll take his men to join a marine operation, which we can use as a distraction while we find everyone. We’ll commandeer a ship and slip away in the chaos.”

Bepo thinks this over, fluffy brow adorably furrowed. Slowly, he nods. “Okay then,” he says equally slowly, and Law knows from thirteen years spent growing up together that there’s something his friend isn’t saying.

“Bepo,” he chides. 

The mink shakes his head. “It’s nothing, Captain. It’s a good plan.”

“Even if it’s not about the plan.” Law moves to grab Bepo’s paw again. “Talk to me.”

His friend still seems unsure, but as usual, he relents. “I just… I don’t get it?” When Law gives him a blank look, Bepo raises his free hand to gesture vaguely. “Just… this. I get that it’s him, but this is– bigger than that.” He narrows his eyes, as if trying to peer inside Law somehow. It might be intimidating from someone else, but like most things, Bepo just makes it look cute. Which unfortunately is doubly as effective on Law in particular. “It’s so many moving pieces, even for you.”

Law sighs. “I know. I…” 

He trails off, trying to wrangle his jumbled thoughts. Not for the first time, he has to wonder what the hell he’s doing; lately, it's like he loses all sense of reason when it comes to Smoker. And the thing is, he didn’t use to. Smoker wouldn’t even have been in the top three allies Law would ask for help in this situation, much less been the one he fixated on, if not for… Punk Hazard.

Punk Hazard. God, Law wishes that accursed snowy inferno would stop haunting him. He hasn’t known a moment of peace since he set foot on Caesar’s territory.

“I don’t like it either,” he begins again, staring at their joined hands. “Believe me, I don’t. And I told White Hunter-ya as much. But… I just don’t see many other options.” Law looks up to meet dark, shiny button eyes and presses his mouth into a thin line. “This is our best chance. We’ve always been good at playing it by ear, and this way we know there’s at least one person around who doesn’t want us dead. It’s a hell of a lot better than anything else we’re likely to get.”

Bepo keeps looking at him like he’s a puzzle to be solved, face scrunched. It’s not a way Law likes to be looked at by anyone, but he tries his best to not let it get to him. It’s not like he can really blame Bepo, after all, not when he keeps having to ask himself if he’s lost his damn mind.

After a good long moment, Bepo squeezes his hand. 

“You trust him.”

Once again, it’s not a question. But it’s not an accusation either, despite the way it’s phrased. It’s an observation, honest and forgiving. There’s something Law thinks is relief in Bepo’s eyes now, a calmness like he’s found the thing he’d been so intently looking for. 

Because, as usual, Bepo has seen right through Law like he’s made of clear glass. Somehow he’s taken one look at the incognizable mess that keeps evading Law’s best attempts at understanding it and broken it right down to its bare essentials. Simple as Electro to his kind. And when it’s laid out plainly like that, Law can’t even deny it. It is trust. Has been for a long time; Punk Hazard had just solidified it. That’s why he’d relied on Smoker’s help back then - because he knew Smoker would be able to help him with Vergo. Because Law trusted that Smoker would catch on to his unspoken plan and retrieve his heart, and because he’d trusted Smoker to swallow his pride and let Law finish it. It's also why he’d told Smoker’s his intended destination, potentially compromising the entire plan. Because he’d trusted Smoker to find a way to have his back.

And because Smoker had delivered every single time, in his darkest moment Law had latched onto the idea of finding him rather than anyone else.

It’s no use trying to deny it at this point. Self-conscious, Law lowers his gaze. “I do.”

Eyes fixed on the way hand is dwarfed by Bepo’s much larger paw and the way his white fur curls around long, thin fingers, Law waits. From the corner of his eye, he sees Bepo nod - then outright beam at him. “Okay! Good.”

Law looks back up, thoroughly confused. “Good?”

Bepo nods again empathically. “If you trust him, then I will too.”

Law finds himself unable to do much other than stare. “Huh,” he hears himself say, a stupefied little sound escaping him on an exhale. He’d expected he’d be judged much harder than this, that he’d be demanded explanations, maybe even have his judgment called into question. Which would all be more than fair. But Bepo has always been too quick to trust Law.

He doesn’t get a chance to ask about it, because Bepo goes serious again, beady eyes sharpening. “Captain, are you… how are you?”

Law swallows. His first instinct is to lie - not out of regard for his dignity or his role as Captain, but to keep from burdening his friend. He disregards that quickly, though; if anything, trying to downplay himself would only cause Bepo to worry more. 

The problem is, since falling apart on Smoker that first night, Law has done his best to shove all his distress far, far to the back of his mind and lock it there. He doesn’t have the time to deal with all of that right now. There are plans to draft, preparations to be made, injuries to treat. There’s simply no space for the emotions left in the wake of staticky darkness crawling over his skin, or the primal instinct that awakens whenever he spots a formless shadow he can’t immediately make sense of, or–

Shaking his head to clear it, Law smooths his thumb over white fur. “I’m healing,” he says, careful not to sound too dismissive. “I won’t lie, the damage to my insides was significant, but I’ve been repairing it in increments. I’ll be fine.” He had first done so under Bepo’s own watchful eye, half-delirious but keenly aware that he could not wait, that he would only keep getting worse. The haphazard emergency operation had taken a lot out of Law, knocked him clean out for another few hours, but it had accomplished what it needed to: cursorily patched the largest ruptures and halted the hemorrhaging happening in various organs. Just enough to hold him together until he could do more. 

Bepo reaches over with his other paw to cover Law’s hand, clasping it gently between his. “That’s not what I meant and I think you know it, Captain.”

Law sighs. “I know, Bepo. I just…”

He trails off, choking on the lump that rises in his throat. It tastes like bile and blood, a tangle of words and feelings that have festered inside him for five days, begging to be let out. It’s his guilt, his grief, his pain and all the memories swelling in size the longer he leaves them for, building up into something monstrous: a merciless predator that will keep chasing him at a steady, relentless pace, always looming in the background and just waiting for its chance. For Law to let his guard down.

But he just can’t.

Law swallows the lump and all it represents, knowing full well that one day it will catch up to him, and shakes his head. “I can’t, Bepo,” he whispers, looking up into his friend’s eyes with an unspoken plea.

Bepo looks back for a long moment, his sad, shiny eyes unforgiving in the way they tug at Law’s heartstrings. He’s always been weak to anything fluffy and cute, especially his oldest friend, but he wishes more than ever that weren’t the case. He’s not doing this because he wants to: he’s no psychiatrist, but Law knows there’s no running from trauma like this forever. Sooner or later he’ll have to confront it, but to do so, he needs time they simply do not have to spare right now. There’ll be time for him to fall to pieces later, after they’ve gotten their family and home back. Or what remains of them.

Bepo understands, though. Just like he always does. He nods, snout twitching even as he offers a watery smile and a squeeze to Law’s hand. “Aye aye, Captain,” he whispers, and not for the first time today, Law feels the pressure of unshed tears behind his eyes.

That would be dangerously close to breaking, though, so he tempers it and bows his head gratefully. “You should rest,” he proclaims in an attempt to distract both of them, trying to project the authority of a doctor - if not a captain.

“You too,” Bepo points out, and Law can’t find it in himself to argue. He huffs a soft laughter and hauls his suddenly very heavy body onto the bed, nudging the mink until he makes room. Mindful of both their injuries and the limited space available, Law squeezes himself close to his friend, folding his long legs over Bepo’s and curling up against his side. Bepo raises his arm to wrap it protectively around Law, and Law lets him pull him close, burying his face in the borrowed yukata. The combination of Smoker’s signature scent still clinging to the garment with the familiar feel of Bepo’s embrace is uncanny, to say the least, but as weariness starts pressing down on him, Law finds it surprisingly easy to push out of his mind.

Comforted by Bepo’s heartbeat - steady and perfectly in sync with the clock on Smoker’s wall - drumming in his ears, Law slips into sleep in minutes.

Smoker isn’t avoiding Tashigi. Not exactly. He just has a lot of duties. A ship to run, calls to make, paperwork to fill. But honestly, he’s surprised how long it takes her to get fed up with his shiftiness and physically drag him aside, hands coated in Haki to keep him from literally wafting away.

“Smoker, sir,” she says when she lets go of him at the bow of the ship, well out of earshot of any of their men. “We need to talk. No, it cannot wait,” she adds when he opens his mouth.

Smoker huffs a temperamental cloud of smoke in her face - which she naturally doesn’t even flinch at, having been on the receiving end of many like it dozens of times - and crosses his arms. “Fine.”

Tashigi nods in approval, and only then does she realize the position she’s put herself in. Fidgeting replaces the authority in her poise as she adjusts her glasses, nervously glancing around. It’s funny; commanding only ever seems to come to her easily when she loses her temper, and as soon as it passes, she reverts back to being a meek nerd. But, to her credit, she does try, and so now, Tashigi draws a deep breath. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

Despite knowing exactly where this is going and what it means for him, Smoker sighs. "You know you don't need to ask that."

It’s an unspoken rule of theirs. Smoker is notorious for having no patience for what he considers useless niceties on the best of days. It’s the reason he’d been stuck in the fucking East Blue for years - not officially, of course, but Smoker learned to read between the lines of all the ceremonious bullshit officials like to throw around as a cadet - and it continues to be the leading cause of him ending up in hot water. It naturally follows that he won’t tolerate that shit from his subordinates, either. Tashigi had understood that early on, which is why she’s the first second of Smoker’s to last longer than a month. And while she has a fondness for protocol that Smoker will never understand, she also has never hesitated to challenge him when it’s called for. (Well, at least not after the first time she’d gone off on him - justifiably, as is usually the case - and Smoker had to bully the mortification out of her by threatening to turn in his own badge if she ever dared to hold her tongue with him again; because Smoker will be the first to admit that he needs someone like her around.)

Tashigi resolutely keeps her eyes on her shoes, a light pink dusting her cheeks. She mumbles something about having it on the record that Smoker can't quite hear (but still scoffs at on principle), then draws another deep breath and raises her head to look him in the eye. Despite her nervousness, the dark brown of her irises is clear and steely. "I know Trafalgar Law is aboard the ship."

There it is. Smoker removes the two cigars hanging off his lip and stretches his arm over the railing to ash them into the ocean. He keeps his eyes on Tashigi, narrowing them against the buffeting wind. Her mouth is just a thin line with a distinct downward curve, her brows knitted together with a deep crease between them. It’s a familiar enough look, though Smoker never relishes having it directed at himself. Tashigi meets his scrutiny with her chin held high, shoulders down. Smoker can't help but feel proud; not two years ago, just the look he's giving her now would have sent her scrambling with flustered apologies and anxious fidgeting. She still hasn’t unlearned that entirely, but over time she’s needed less and less validation from him in order to trust her own instincts.

It's good to see how much she's grown, but having the results turned on him is the last thing Smoker needs right now. He breathes a weary sigh full of cigar smoke and pinches the bridge of his nose. Trying to deny it at this point would just make this worse, so: "He is." 

Tashigi bites her lip, not the least bit surprised. Smoker knows better than to try and guess what's going on in that brain of hers, so he busies himself with puffing on his cigars until she nods. "The night before yesterday. When that coo arrived. I thought I felt it - that's when, right?"

When Smoker grunts in vague affirmation, the crease between Tashigi's eyebrows grows deeper. "Is he… um, alone?"

It's clear enough what she's really asking, even without the way her ears color a deep tomato red. Smoker can't help snorting at her bashfulness; it's not like she never caught on to what was going on between him and Law. For one, she’s far too observant, and for another, Smoker will be the first to admit that the two of them weren’t always nearly as stealthy as they probably should have. Between Law’s general impatience, Smoker’s tendency to charge straight ahead in any given situation, and the usually unplanned nature of, well, everything, they definitely got careless more than once. Smoker can only hope Tashigi is the only one who noticed. (He’s about ninety-eight percent sure of it, though - if any of his dumbass men knew, he would undoubtedly have heard of it by now.)

Then he thinks of Law and the way he’d looked when Smoker left the cabin that morning, asleep at his navigator’s bedside. He can vividly recall the deep lines on that narrow face, the shadow of unshaven stubble on his jaw and the sunkenness of those eyes, restlessly flickering under closed lids at whatever dreams plagued that pretty head. Law hadn’t even stirred as Smoker went about his routines, which only fueled the now constant anxious flame living behind Smoker’s breastbone. He knows from experience just how light a sleeper Law can be; it's telling that Smoker has probably seen more of his unconscious state during these past two days than the entire rest of their acquaintance. 

It’s difficult to shake the inherent wrongness of that image, and all at once Smoker feels a frown pulling at his lips. He puffs on his cigars and leans on the railing. “Nah. Showed up with that bear of his.”

Tashigi blinks. “Oh.”

Smoker grits his teeth. “They’re in bad shape, Tashigi.”

He doesn’t need to look to know the way Tashigi snaps to attention, caught off guard by his honesty in the way that she often is - but like always, she doesn’t hesitate to stand right by him. And when Smoker senses her eyes soften, making him the target of her boundless compassion, he can’t bring himself to look. 

“Blackbeard?” She asks, in a tone that says she already knows.

Smoker simply nods.

Tashigi adjusts her glasses, lips pursed thoughtfully. Smoker tosses his cigar stumps into the sea, scowling at it like it has anything to do with the myriad of things bothering him. Like it could've stopped the polar bear from swimming the two stowaways over, or Blackbeard from attacking the Hearts, or, shit, maybe even Law from sailing into New Marineford two years ago with that morbid cargo of still-beating hearts. For all the world swears by the seas, Smoker doubts it actually has power over anything. In his experience, shit will find a way to go down, higher powers be damned. (At least Smoker never believed in them anyway.)

While Tashigi thinks, he cuts and lights two new cigars. It’s more out of habit than anything else; he’s hardly even aware of his fingers going through the familiar motions before the soothing tang of nicotine hits his tongue. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Tashigi wet her lips. It gives him just enough time to not be caught off guard when she asks, “So what are you planning to do?”

Smoker exhales thick plumes of smoke, considering this. On the surface, the plan is clear: join Garp on Hachinosu, drop Law and his bear off, and see which way the winds blow from there. Cut and dry. In reality, however, he’s not dumb enough to expect things to go so smoothly. 

When he doesn’t answer, Tashigi frowns and adjusts her glasses again. “Sir,” she prompts, again with the kind of firmness that Smoker knows he has no chances against.

Heaving a put-upon sigh, Smoker gives her the kind of critical look that would send a lesser marine running for the hills, which she of course meets without even batting an eye. “I’m giving him a ride.”

Tashigi contemplates this, eyes narrowing as she looks him up and down. Smoker resolutely stares out to the sea, not willing to meet her inquisitive gaze head on.

“Why would he want to go to Hachinosu?” She asks, suspicion plain in her voice. Smoker can’t blame her: from her point of view it doesn’t make much sense. Typically, heading straight for the enemy’s stronghold is the last thing one should do after a crushing defeat. It’s outright suicidal, indicative of foolhardiness and desire for petty revenge that does not fit a man like Trafalgar Law at all. But there’s something important Tashigi is missing.

Smoker pulls on his cigars. “His crew,” he bites out. When she makes a questioning noise, he sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Their ship was destroyed. Him and his navigator were the only ones who escaped, no idea what happened to the others. Might be dead, might have escaped…”

“...might be prisoners,” Tashigi finishes for him, immediately catching on. She nods. “Makes sense. It’s the best place to start.” She pauses, hesitating a little. “Does he know about…?”

“The bare minimum.” Well, maybe just a touch more than that, because Smoker is weak and Law knows how to play to that, but Smoker is not about to admit that. He looks at Tashigi, daring her to challenge him. Her mouth twitches in disapproval, lines around it tightening as her lips press together, but as is often the case, she has mercy on him. 

“And when we get there?” She asks instead.

Smoker shrugs. “Up to him.” He looks at her calmly, anticipating the protests he can see forming in her head. “He won’t make trouble for us if we don’t make any for him. And any chaos he could cause in port could only be of advantage to us.”

Tashigi doesn’t look convinced, evident in the stiffness of her shoulders and the way she raps her fingers on Shigure’s hilt where it rests on her hip. There must be something she sees in Smoker, though, because she doesn’t voice her concerns, simply sighing. “Very well.”

The relief her acceptance prompts is unexpectedly strong. Smoker tends to hold some tension in his shoulders at any given time - it's a common joke among the men that even baby Smoker probably only ever frowned - but he hadn’t even noticed it building far beyond normal until the moment it releases. As he exhales a small sigh, shoulders dropping, Smoker has to bite his tongue to hold back the thanks threatening to escape. Saying it would be too much; would reveal too much, would add weight Smoker is not ready to face. So he just nods gruffly, hoping that Tashigi will understand.

The way she looks at him, all exasperation tinged with badly suppressed fondness, tells him that she does.

When Smoker returns to his cabin that night, he finds the bear awake and Law asleep. He quirks a brow at the scene: a weary-looking polar bear mink reclining on the Navy-issue bed, gazing fondly at his scrawny captain, who is haphazardly stretched next to (and over) him, cuddled close like a starfish with his face buried in white fur. It’s a position Smoker is familiar with, and he scrambles to squash the jealous thoughts threatening to arise.

“So you’re not dead,” he deadpans as he steps inside and pulls the door closed behind him, taking more care than he’d like to admit in making sure it’s quiet. “Good. The brat was beside himself, just waiting around.”

The bear startles, and both of them hold their breaths for a moment - but Law doesn’t stir. He only snuffles in his sleep, turning more towards his friend and burrowing into the warmth there. (It would be cute if not for the concern it raises - Law has obviously been awake at some point to have moved, but he's as dead asleep now as he was when Smoker left this morning, the shadows on his face as dark as ever.) The mink then turns his nervous eyes on Smoker as he stalks closer, not even pausing to look as he drops his long white coat on the back of his office chair when he passes it.

“Vice admiral,” the bear acknowledges him with a quiet nod. Smoker pretends he doesn’t see the way those paws tighten around Law.

With the two of them taking up his bed, Smoker finds himself with limited options. After a moment of debate he settles on the couch, plopping down on it with one arm thrown over the backrest and one leg straightened along the seat. Tashigi is not here to chide him for ruining the upholstery, so he can’t be bothered to remove his boots. Smoker lets his head hang back, enjoying the stretch against the ever-present crick plaguing his muscles as he raises a hand to pluck his cigars from his mouth. He blows a steady, slow lungful of smoke straight towards the ceiling, the swirl familiar and meditative. He can almost forget about his uninvited guests and the mission looming ahead, but of course it doesn’t take long for his peace to be interrupted.

"You helped us," a high-pitched voice says.

Smoker frowns at the fading white plumes above him. He keeps his eyes on the ceiling until they've completely disappeared, and only then raises his head to look over to the bed, where the mink is giving him an indecipherable look with his dark, wet button eyes. "'Scuse me?"

The bear's ears flatten either in embarrassment or nervousness, Smoker can't tell, but he determinedly clears his throat. "You… helped us. I-I wasn't sure you would."

Smoker grunts, replacing the cigars in his mouth to gnaw on them. He takes a long moment to consider his words before offering up any sort of reply. "Surprised you agreed to bring him here."

If bears could blush, Smoker is fairly certain this one would right now. As it is, his ears flatten further along his head, entire snout twitching. He averts his gaze, further reinforcing the embarrassed look. Smoker has to strain his ears to hear the mumbled words that come out. “Captain’s orders.”

Smoker snorts. The bear is absolutely dodging the question, and doing so rather badly too. But that’s fine; Smoker isn’t really interested in tormenting him, so he lets his head fall back again, content to let the issue lie. 

Too bad his company doesn’t share the sentiment. Smoker listens to the barely audible frustrated wheezing as the bear tries to get whatever it is he wants to say off his chest. It ends up taking less time than he thought it would. 

“I, I don’t mean to be ungrateful–” The bear pauses as Smoker snorts again, then pushes onwards, “and the Captain trusts you. B-but, I can’t help wondering - why?”

Why indeed? 

Smoker keeps his face skyward, mulling it over. Hell, that’s a question he’d like an answer to, himself, but he’s had a good two days to reflect on it and he still has nothing. He has no idea what compelled him to not only shelter Law and his polar bear, but to go the extra mile (literally) of ferrying them to their destination. Law sure as shit hasn’t asked him to, considering how Smoker had to fight for him to agree to it. Every instinct in his body should be telling Smoker not to do it, for a variety of reasons, but what’s been happening is pretty much the opposite.

Smoker is an emotional guy. He’s perfectly aware of this, and perfectly comfortable with it; he sees no point in holding himself back or trying to be something he isn’t. That said, Smoker also knows full well that he’s not what people would call ‘in touch with his feelings’. Especially feelings that he can’t solve by punching something, literally or figuratively. Unfortunately, those are exactly the kinds of feelings Law tends to incite in him, increasingly so these past few days. And hell if Smoker knows what to do with that, or what it all means. 

And, well, even if he did, he’s not sure he’d be inclined to share with a damn polar bear. The brat’s best friend or not.

But said bear is expecting at least a reply, if not an answer. Smoker heaves a raspy sigh, scrubbing a hand across his face. The words take a while to come to him, but he finally settles on, “Because he needed it.” 

He’s met with silence, and doesn’t bother looking up to confirm if it’s surprised, suspicious, or the annoyingly perceptive kind that Tashigi often hits him with. He’s not sure he’d be able to tell, anyway: the mink is not exactly easy to read, although Smoker is ready to pin that on him being, well, a mink. Not exactly Smoker’s area of expertise.

The bear takes his sweet time pondering the words, anyway. So long that when he speaks up again, Smoker startles, having lulled himself into a new meditative spell.

“He trusts you, you know.”

Smoker raises his head to properly frown at the bear. The face looking back at him catches him by surprise; a far cry from the embarrassed stuttering earlier, Smoker finds himself the target of a calm and knowing button-eyed gaze. It’s eerily similar to how Tashigi had looked at him on the deck. The difference is that Smoker is willing to tolerate a great deal from Tashigi; far more than from any sidekick of Law’s. Hackles successfully raised, Smoker musters up the most irate glare he can, hoping to at least see the bear squirm.

He’s disappointed when the mink only shifts nervously, otherwise undeterred. “The Captain,” he repeats, “trusts you.”

Smoker chews on his cigars, letting his head fall back again. “Yeah, you said that.”

“And you trust him.” 

It’s not a question. That should worry Smoker, or tick him off, especially given how irritated he already is. But somehow it just… rolls off. Like water off a duck's back, droplets gliding over sleek feathers. 

The realization shocks Smoker straight out of his mood, leaving him gaping dumbly at the ceiling. What’s more, he knows why the statement doesn’t get to him: because it’s true. The words elicit no reaction because they’re simply fact, no different than if the bear had declared that the sky is blue. A well-established doubting Thomas as he is, even Smoker’s brain won’t fight facts.

He's really not in the mood to examine that any further, though; this is no time for weird epiphanies. Luckily Smoker’s brain is good at more than questioning everything, such as compartmentalization; he promptly deposits that revelation in the section of his mind labeled ‘for later review’ and gives a noncommittal grunt in order to avoid incriminating himself, hoping it'll be enough to discourage further questions.

It works, if not exactly in the way he intended. Smoker still feels distinctly like he’s being seen through when he hears the smile in the bear's exhale. "I think… you're good for him."

Smoker sneers at the ceiling. "Don't need your blessing, bear."

"My name is Bepo," the bear whines - honest to God whines. It's as adorable as it is annoying, and Smoker is struck by the intense feeling of having just opened a small, tiny porthole into Law's head. To think that the brat really is used to spending his days with a walking talking stuffed animal within arm’s reach. Actually, it explains way more than one would think, not least of all Law’s penchant for specific kinds of affection (although it had taken a long time before he’d settled enough to be comfortable receiving any at all).

It’s immediately clear that the outburst was just an involuntary reaction, because it's soon followed by inelegant sputtering. "A-and that's not what– not what I–"

It may be a questionable victory, but Smoker is happy to take it and relish the moment of silence it grants him while the mink - Bepo - composes himself.

"The Captain," he says when he finally does, speaking in a very deliberate tone, "has been through a lot. And he’s not good with… feelings.”

Smoker suppresses the urge to snort a third time, if only out of genuine curiosity. He has no idea where the bear is going with this, but Smoker can’t bring himself to resist the rare chance to gain some insight. What with Law being as standoffish and elusive as he is on the best of days, Smoker doesn’t actually know that much about him. Not as much as he’d like, anyway. And aside from Punk Hazard, the past two days are the most vulnerability either of them has ever allowed. So, yeah, if someone who really knows Law is going to talk, like hell is Smoker going to pass on the opportunity to hear it. He grunts to indicate he’s still listening, willing his body to not tense and give him away.

"But," Bepo continues, voice soft in a way Smoker recognises but is rarely able to allow for his own self, "he cares. A lot - he'll never admit it, but he does." He draws a deep breath. "There were just four of us originally, you know. We founded the Heart pirates together. But the name was his idea."

That is new information, although not surprising, all things considered. Smoker has always been of the opinion that the choice of name was a little too on the nose, with the tattoos and Law's penchant for stealing essential organs. But getting evidence for a theory always puts it into perspective. 

Smoker thinks of Dressrosa: of the obvious history between Law and Doflamingo, the deep-seated anger and hurt Smoker had witnessed on Punk Hazard, and later inferred from reports. He remembers the peculiar coat he’d spied Law with there - the same one he’d seen him wear on the news in the few blurry photos someone had managed to snap of him in the midst of the chaos on that island - and the curious text across the back of it. A tiny little oddity about Doflamingo’s crew that Smoker had once noted and promptly disregarded as just the quirk of a madman is now a flashing neon sign; the executives and their names. Trebol, Diamante, Pica - Clubs, Diamonds, Spades. 

And conspicuously, no Corazon.

No Hearts.

"Captain doesn't open up to just anyone," the bear carries on, oblivious to Smoker's musings. "There's twenty of us now, not counting him. Each was recruited by him personally. Every single one of us would do anything for him, and we know he'd do anything for any of us."

Smoker knows this. He's seen and heard enough of Law's crew to know what they're like - that is, entirely too similar to Smoker's own men. Which means, if Smoker knows Law at all (and he likes to think he has at least an inkling), they elicit similar feelings in Law that the G-5 do in Smoker. But hearing that deduction confirmed by someone who truly does know the prickly bastard…

Bepo has long since turned his eyes away from Smoker. He's looking at his sleeping captain, arms still curled protectively around his scrawny form. It’s obvious what kind of thoughts are running through that fuzzy head, and Smoker can relate. Whatever it is about this wiry miscreant that draws people to him, that inspires such fierce devotion, Smoker is just as helpless to it as the mink.

“He’s decided to include you in that number,” Bepo nearly whispers, eyes darting to Smoker and back to Law again. “I just wanted to make sure you know that.”

Smoker has always prided himself on his instincts. Thirty-six years in this world, twenty of them in the Navy and more sailing the seas, he’s been through enough to know when to trust his gut. And from the very beginning, something about Trafalgar Law didn’t add up. 

While a member of the Worst Generation, he’d been squarely in the middle tier bounty-wise, just barely above Scratchmen “Roar of the Sea” Apoo. Then he’d appeared from nowhere - literally in the Summit War - and gone from helping the World Government’s greatest enemy to all but demanding them for a job in the span of less than a month. (His bounty had jumped, along with Straw Hat’s, by a hundred million after their disappearing act; and after Rocky Port, it had hiked up to four hundred and forty million, where it had been frozen upon his appointment as Warlord. Making him the very pick of the Supernova litter practically overnight.) 

It takes a special kind of crazy to sail into an active war zone to help out anyone, especially a rival, and Smoker hadn’t bought Law’s dismissive explanation of it being ‘a whim’ for a second. So he’d gone digging. And when he had, Smoker had quickly discovered that the picture the Surgeon of Death painted of himself did not match the actual reports on file concerning his exploits.

Now, Smoker knows from experience how deceiving looks - or reputation - can be. Most people never realize that behind the stern exterior of the White Hunter is a man of considerable compassion and generosity. And not because Smoker deliberately tries to hide it: it’s simply the kind of person he is. Unlike many of his colleagues, Smoker didn’t join the Navy in search of power or glory, because all he’s ever cared about is helping people. And the more Smoker looked into Law, the clearer it became that the two of them had more in common than Smoker did with some (if not most) of his peers. 

Smoker knows Law cares much more than he likes to let on. It’s evident in every crime scene he’s left behind; despite the threat in his title, the Surgeon of Death doesn’t actually have much of a body count. While it’s obviously thanks to his unique Devil Fruit that he’s able to leave the areas he hits as bloodless (not to mention painless, according to some sources) as he has, he could just as easily choose not to. Hell, it might even be less work for him, not having to cast his power before cutting everything up. But in addition to virtually never leaving serious injuries in his wake, Law was consistent about one other thing: most of the chaos he’s caused - jumbled body parts, misplaced items, what one report had just called 'general topsy-turviness’, whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean - has been entirely reversible even in his absence. 

(Also, much like Straw Hat, the Hearts have never attacked anyone who hadn’t done something to deserve it. As far as Smoker can tell, anyway. Although ‘done something to deserve it’ is obviously a highly ambiguous statement when dealing with pirates, but at least Law’s doesn't vacillate like Eustass fucking Kid’s.)

No, what Bepo has told Smoker is not all that surprising; he'd put the clues together long ago. But he has to admit it’s… compelling, when laid out so plainly. Almost too compelling, because with all this new information added to it, the chapter dedicated to Law in his mind’s ‘for later review’ folder is getting awfully bulky. Pretty soon it might burst at the seams and demand to be dealt with, but Smoker just doesn’t have the time to spare.

Realizing he’s been pulling on the burnt-out stumps of his cigars for a good minute, Smoker exhales a long stream of smoke - then nearly chokes on it when a new voice pipes up.

“Quit romanticizing at him, Bepo,” Law mumbles, nearly unintelligible with the way his face is still smushed into his friend’s chest. 

Bepo jumps, the entirety of his white fur suddenly standing on end. As Smoker turns to look, he can see sleepy golden eyes frowning up at the mink, whose ears flatten in shame. “S-sorry, Captain…”

Law shoves him gently to get him to loosen his very literal bear hug and yawns, one sleeve-covered hand coming to rub at his eyes. Smoker hastens to busy himself with literally anything else to avoid looking at the devastatingly cute display, once again having to tamp down the ugly green feelings in his chest. 

“How… How long have you been awake?” he hears the mink quietly ask, and even without looking Smoker can sense the deprecation in the look Law gives in return.

“Not long enough, judging by what I heard,” Law answers, his tone dry. As Bepo shrinks even further, Smoker finds himself feeling bad enough that he seriously considers speaking up in his defense. But as he looks up to do so, he finds Laws unrelenting, though still sleepy, attention already on him. “Oi, White Hunter-ya.”

Smoker raises a pointed eyebrow. Law, of course, is entirely immune to such measures. “Stop bothering my navigator. He needs to rest.”

Smoker’s other brow joins the first as his face turns to incredulity. “I’m bothering him?”

“Considering the fact that he’s awake and talking to you, yes.” Law extricates himself from Bepo and sits up slowly, raising scrawny arms above his head and stretching lazily. Smoker is suddenly very glad that the borrowed clothes are huge on him, because he can vividly recall how Law’s own shirts would always ride up and expose his lean stomach and the bold ink. Assuming he was wearing a shirt in the first place. As adorable as the alternative is, with the way the oversized shirt hangs off one shoulder and how Law has let the long sleeves swallow his hands, it at least leaves Smoker’s useless brain somewhat functional. Judging by how just a memory of the usual hits hard enough to send him reeling, Smoker is fairly sure the real thing might actually end him.

As his guests start another hushed conversation, Smoker closes his eyes and tunes them out. His cigars have long since gone out, but he keeps them just to chew on as he contemplates. As much as he yearns to light at least one more, it’s been a long day and he’s tired, doubly so because of how Bepo has caused his head to buzz like a kicked beehive. He should just get to sleep - but it doesn’t look like he’s going to get his bed back for the night. Maybe he should just get comfortable on the couch and catch what rest he can.

Mind made up, Smoker floats the cigar stumps to the ashtray on his desk and attempts to settle on the decidedly not comfortable, entirely too small piece of furniture. He knows it’s a futile task: for one, the couch is made for someone approximately three quarters of his size, and for another, it wasn’t made for sleeping on. But it’s hardly the worst Smoker has had, so he’ll make do.

He gets maybe three minutes of peace before being rudely poked awake. Literally.

“Oi."

Smoker cracks an eye open to find Law standing over him, restless fingers rapping on the backrest of the couch and face pinched with what Smoker thinks might be reluctance. Satisfied that he has Smoker’s attention, Law withdraws said hand and shoves it into a pocket, probably to hide his anxious tics. As if Smoker hasn't memorized each of them a long time ago. “I’m gonna raid your sickbay.”

Opening his other eye, Smoker frowns up at him. “Like hell you are.”

“With or without you,” Law continues, undeterred. 

Recognising that for the thinly veiled invitation that it is, Smoker sighs and sits up, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’d think a doctor would have more respect for another professional’s station,” he grouses.

Law snorts. “Please. Your medic may have the luxury of an actual license, but I wouldn’t call them professional.”

That is literally the very definition of a professional, is what Smoker wants to argue, but he’s distracted by the sound of Law’s footsteps padding to the door. Having fully expected to just be transported across the ship, Smoker looks up in honest confusion. “Not using your spooky power?”

He doesn’t miss the way the fingers on Law’s un-pocketed hand flex, a familiar movement usually associated with his weird-ass Devil Fruit. But no blue film blooms forth nor shrill note ring out. Law huffs, pointedly facing away. “I need to save my strength. Now come on.”

Leaving Smoker no room to reply, he cracks the door open and stalks into the hallway. Scrubbing a weary hand across his face, Smoker spares a glance at the bear - fast asleep again, quietly snoring - and rises to follow.

Bepo has always been able to read Law like an open book, especially when Law desperately wants not to be known.

They met when both of them were just kids, a moody 13-year-old still suffering the aftershocks of a life-threatening illness - not to mention some 4 years of having his entire world upended - and a prepubescent polar bear a million miles from home. It had been the most natural thing in the world for Law to assume the role of older brother, led by instincts he’d perfected when caring for his sister in the last years they had together; and Bepo had likewise fallen back on the part of the younger brother, clinging to Law like a lifebuoy. 

(And what an irony that Law had just lost the ability to swim.) 

They've been inseparable since Bepo followed Law to Wolf's that fateful day, a bond extended to Shachi and Penguin not long after. All of them know Law better than he knows himself, but Bepo is the one who actually gets him to listen most often. Maybe it's the borderline hero worship Law has tried his best to weed out (but never quite succeeded), maybe it's that Bepo is the youngest (and not constantly using his age as an excuse unlike the older two), maybe it's that Law is so damn weak for cute and fluffy things (a quality Shachi and Penguin have never had a problem exploiting) - but whatever the reason, the times Law hasn't caved to Bepo's puppy eyes can probably be counted on the fingers of one hand.

And the thing is. Following Bepo's advice has never steered Law wrong. 

That doesn't mean Law has to like it.

(Talk to him, Captain, Bepo said as Law busied himself with doing another quick scan. Don’t leave it like this.

And say what? Law sneered. There’s nothing to talk about.

I don’t think that’s true, Bepo pressed.

Law let his room flicker out, scowling down at his fingers. It won’t matter. We won’t be coming back for a long time, anyway.

Exactly, Bepo insisted, grasping Law’s hand gently between his paws. We don’t know when we’ll be back. You should tell him how you feel - that you care about him.

I thought you just did, Law jabbed. He felt equal parts guilty and satisfied when Bepo’s ears flattened, fur bristling in shame. But rather than allow the rebuke to silence him, Bepo steeled himself and squeezed Law’s hand. 

Law.  

Reluctantly, Law looked up. Bepo’s eyes were shiny and somber. He cares about you.

Law swallowed, tensing up but unable to look away with those button eyes staring directly into his. And Bepo had no mercy for him. You don’t want to leave it like this.)

Damned fluffy mink and his impeccable insight. And damned Smoker, for having slithered his smoke under Law's skin. Law had tried to cut him out, but hadn't burned the roots, so on Punk Hazard Smoker had just snuck right back in and once again made a home of Law's bones. Law wishes he could hate it, but like everything Smoker does, it just endears Law to him. 

The vice admiral now sits quietly behind him while Law blatantly robs his medical supplies, packing provisions into a spare marine-issue bag he'd likewise swiped on the way over. Law supposes that's fair: he had flat-out stated his intentions. Still, it's eerie how easily Smoker just… lets him. He simply sits there, cross-legged on a flimsy infirmary chair he’d pulled up, arms crossed and chewing on his cigars. Law can feel eyes following his every movement, sharp as a scalpel. It’s far from unusual; despite everything, Smoker has never forgotten what Law is - namely, a crook and a criminal - which is just fine by Law. The piercing stare is almost calming, in a way. (Although Law much prefers it when Smoker can’t keep his eyes off him for other reasons entirely.)

But Law can't allow himself to be distracted. Both he and Bepo still need treatment, and who knows how many of their crew if (when, a voice in his head chides, but it’s weak and muffled) they find them. And there's no guarantee that whatever boat of Blackbeard's they manage to appropriate will have a stocked sickbay. 

Not that many ships meet Law’s standards on that front, anyway. 

That’s not a line of thinking that is helpful right now, but with anxiety about his crew building within Law’s ribcage, it’s getting harder and harder to keep his head on straight. What can he reasonably expect to find in the average pirate ship’s medical supplies? Can he trust minions of Blackbeard to keep to even that minimum standard? Should Law stock on essentials just in case, or focus on the things he’s more unlikely to find there? Moreover, how will his crew have been treated - if they’re even there? Law racks his brain, trying to remember anything and everything from the end of the battle before he blacked out in Bepo’s arms. What sorts of injuries can he expect from that day alone? Compound that with the time that's passed and whatever the hell else they've been put through in that time–

"Leave some for us, brat," Smoker finally grunts into the silence, interrupting Law's rapid spiraling. It's bait, or perhaps an olive branch; either way, Law dives for it and clings like he's drowning, because it's better than being stuck in his head.

"I'm leaving you plenty, White Hunter-ya," he says, rolling his eyes even though they both know it's purely for show. "Take it as an incentive to not get your ass handed to you."

Smoker snorts loudly. Which is fair; it's a weak jab at best. It would be so easy for Smoker to take that and turn it on Law, too, to poke at his recent loss and spin himself on top. And ordinarily, he might. But the past few days between them have been anything but ordinary - hell, Law can barely remember what ordinary is even supposed to look like. 

After all, it’s become clear that he may not have known to begin with.

This thing between them began by accident. Law blames Smoker; he would’ve been content to ignore the bothersome chain-smoking Navy goon just like he did every other Marine, but said goon just wouldn’t have it. Before either of them knew, the accident had turned into coincidence, had turned into a pattern. And the pattern was comfortable. A predictable push-and-pull, with softness hidden under enough layers of sarcasm and mutually assured destruction that neither of them felt compelled to put a stop to it until it was far, far too late.

Law wonders now if he’s the only one who saw it that way. And even if he wasn’t - when did it change?

“Smoker,” Law finally begins as the silence stretching between them becomes unbearable. “What Bepo said–”

Smoker clicks his tongue. “Law–”

“Let me finish.” Law turns around, crossing his arms like raising a shield. If he doesn’t get this out now, he never will. The words behind his teeth are angry bees, buzzing, begging to be let out - or suffocate him. Law draws a deep breath and speaks, eyes firmly trained on Smoker’s boots. “He’s meddlesome, to be sure, but… he wasn’t wrong.”

Whatever Smoker was expecting him to say, it clearly isn’t that, judging by the way his eyebrows jump right up to his hairline. Law huffs, hunching in on himself. “I do trust you. We wouldn’t have come here if I didn’t. And… I am thankful. You didn’t have to do any of this, and we would be much worse off without it. You.”

Speaking the words is like than pulling teeth, slow and agonizing, but not speaking them would be worse. Thanking people has never been something that Law is good at, especially with words; even apologies come to him more easily. He’s always been of the opinion that words ultimately don’t mean much, so he’d rather not waste his breath on them. Not when there are more substantial things he could be doing. But even he will admit that sometimes, plain words are needed, so he forces them out. Indirect as they are.

Smoker chews on his cigars, taking his time digesting this, and Law busies himself with watching the ashes of Smoker’s cigars. It’s hypnotic, the way red-glowing embers fade to white as they flutter down into a pile between Navy boots, looking like a tiny mound of snow. Law is so engrossed in it that he jumps when Smoker speaks up. “Then let me ask you something.”

Law glances up. Smoker’s face betrays nothing, a stony mask of furrowed brow and downturned mouth that hampers any attempt at reading him. No amount of scrutiny will reveal any more, but Law still wastes a good twenty seconds trying. When that predictably yields nothing, he shrugs, for lack of a better response.

Smoker takes it as an assent and rises from his seat slowly, cigars shifting in his mouth. Law rips his eyes from the snow-like cinders to watch him approach, squaring his shoulders and rolling them back. He has to fight the urge to draw them right up to his ears in anticipation, instead focusing on flexing the hands he still has hidden in the crooks of his arms. Squeezing them into fists, releasing. Squeezing again.

Smoker strides determinedly right up to him and into his personal space, coming to a stop right in front of Law. Close enough that the height difference between them actually matters: without meaning to, Law finds his chin inching higher, just to be able to meet the steely gaze Smoker aims down at him. It feels uncomfortably like appraisal, but before Law can snap about it or start squirming, Smoker speaks up.

"Who is Corazon?"

The sharp words die on his tongue as the blood in Law’s veins turns into solid ice. "What?"

Smoker takes his cigars and gently puts them aside, hand dissipating into smoke to float them somewhere out of the line of Law's sight. He gives Law a long, steadfast look, which normally might calm him, but the question has sent him spiraling through a void. Smoker’s voice comes from somewhere far away, muffled by the rushing wind around Law. Even the rhythmical flexing of his hands has stopped, knuckles frozen white and nails digging crescents into his palms. "Doflamingo's top officers are all named after card suits in Dressri. Trebol - Clubs. Diamante - Diamonds. Pica - Spades."

"But no Hearts," Law breathes. Of course. Smoker is smart, much smarter than people like to give him credit for (certainly smarter than Law likes to give him credit for) and Law had seen the way he looked at the coat he'd worn to Dressrosa. The custom fit Law had meant as a taunt to Doflamingo, so sure that no one else but the Family could possibly catch the message. Well, at the time it hadn’t mattered: Law had expected to die that day. It was only fitting to wear something in homage to the man who allowed him to live so long in the first place. 

But now it does matter. Of all the possible things, Law would never have expected the damned coat to be the one to come back to bite him.

"No Corazon," Smoker agrees. "So who is he?"

Law could lie. 

Not only could, but it would be easy, too. There are so many avenues for him to take here to flee and brush Smoker off, enough to distract him a dozen times over. Hell, with how things have been, Smoker might even let him.

They’ve never really shared their backgrounds. Smoker is a marine and Law is a pirate: that was always enough. Or maybe it wasn’t. How would Law know, when he’s evidently been deluding himself about this whole thing for months? But Smoker is inquisitive by nature, and he’s never been able to leave a mystery alone. It should be no surprise that he's been wondering. And Law’s not even sure he can blame him - only himself, for being willfully blind.

Only three souls alive know Law's full story. A few more know enough to infer the rest, but he hasn't actually recounted the entirety of it in years. He'd given a barebones version to Luffy in Dressrosa - just enough to soothe his own guilt for having dragged the other into such a mess - and the merest facts to Sengoku to sate his curiosity, but no more. Even his friends only know because they woke one too many times to Law thrashing and screaming from nightmares full of white spots and pink feathers.

There's no doubt that Smoker, like the three of them (or Luffy), deserves the story after all he's done for Law. And it’s really not that Law doesn’t want Smoker to know - sure, it’s never really occurred to him before, but faced with the prospect now, he’s surprised to find he doesn’t hate it. On the contrary, honestly, whatever the hell that means.

The problem is that Law scarcely knows where to start. He never has. It’s a long and complicated story, even for someone with all the context. What does Smoker know about Flevance? About North Blue? Could he even begin to understand what it’s like to lose everything, to watch your home and your family burn, and the pain of knowing that you will, too? How it feels to be betrayed over and over again, to be driven into a corner and left with no choice but to become the monster the world sees you as? 

Law knows that Smoker is far from ignorant of the less savory side of the entities he works for. However, even Smoker, for all his cynicism, is an idealist at heart. He knows the corruption in the ranks, maybe even smells the rot permeating the very system, but he believes he can change it from the inside. 

But Law is getting ahead of himself. Smoker didn’t ask for his life story. And while there is no answering his question without also involving a part of himself, it’s a start. Law swallows hard and lowers his gaze, staring at his hands. "Was."

Smoker frowns. "What?"

"Who was Corazon," Law repeats, raising his voice and willing it to not wobble or croak. "The last person to go by that name is thirteen years dead. Come to think of it," he adds after a pause, "his predecessor is also gone, so."

Smoker raises an eyebrow.

Law sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. This is not how he wants this to happen, and definitely not how he pictured the evening going, but… No choice but to leap, he supposes. "Corazon is a title held by two men," he explains. "The first was Vergo." 

He sees Smoker's face twitch and smiles briefly. Smoker would be the type to take Vergo's entire deal personally. They would've been a terrible matchup to begin with, what with Vergo's proficiency in armament Haki and Smoker's logia abilities, but Law knows that is far from the only reason he'd allowed Law to finish that fight. It’s not that Smoker couldn’t have beaten Vergo: Law knows firsthand just how stubborn the man can be, as well as his combat prowess. Given enough time and determination, Smoker would have come out on top eventually.

Instead, he’d played the game Law set up, and passed the baton to him.

It occurs to Law now that he never really expressed his thanks for that, either. In his defense, the entirety of that last day in Vegapunk's labs is a blur, muddled by pain and adrenaline, which is probably a good enough excuse. Besides, Law had been quite preoccupied, with Dressrosa looming on the horizon.

(He hasn't, however, quite been able to forget the way Smoker's worried gaze had lingered on the bloodstains on his face, nor the firm, unhurried touches when he'd insisted on checking Law over for external injuries. Touches that Law had indulged more for his own sake than to soothe Smoker's nerves, if he's to be honest - and it's getting harder and harder to lie to himself.)

Clearing his throat, Law forces himself out those ice-cold lab halls and back to the present. "The second was Donquixote Rosinante." He meets Smoker's eye. "Doflamingo's blood brother… and a Marine spy."

Smoker exhales slowly, turning this over in his head. He takes a minute to really mull it over, a deep crease between his eyebrows. Then he nods, like it's that easy to accept. Maybe it is, for him; Law figures he should probably give up trying to understand how this man's mind works. "I see."

"I was to be the third," Law slips without even thinking about it. At the look Smoker casts at him for it, he can only grimace and shrug. "I told you, I was part of that crew once."

Smoker's face pinches, taking on an expression that Law recognises as him doing mental math. Which has historically never worked out in Law's favor, but he's too slow to stop it before Smoker speaks his conclusions. "I've been wondering about that. How old were you?"

Law huffs. "What of it?"

"I looked it up." Before he can turn away, Smoker has pinned Law in place with one of his capital-L Looks, which always makes Law want to squirm. "You entered the Grand Line nearly three years ago. The only sea we have a record of you sailing before then is the North Blue, which, based on your accent, is where you grew up. Whereas Doflamingo left the North ten years ago to take over Dressrosa and operated from the Grand Line ever since."

Of course Smoker has done his homework. The only surprise is that he can remember all that off the top of his head, and even that’s not all that unexpected when one thinks about it. Law purses his lips, crossing his arms again in order to hide how much this is getting to him. "Very clever."

The oppressive silence Smoker hits him with is far more effective than any other response he could give. Knowing he’s lost, Law makes a show of rolling his eyes in hopes of dissipating some of it. "Fine. I was ten when I met him. When I… joined him." He smiles wryly as he picks up on Smoker's - admittedly well-concealed - shock. "He liked to recruit us young. Just adopting new kids to the Family, I suppose."

That does the trick. Smoker grunts, rubbing his eyes wearily. With his sharp gaze turned away, Law can actually breathe for a damn second. "That's fucked up, Law."

Law barks a laugh. "Isn't it just?" 

The look Smoker gives him is absolutely withering. Normally, Law would shrug it off, but right now it effectively sobers him right up. He glances away, clearing his throat. "I didn't stay long. I was thirteen when Cora-san… saved me. Got me away."

It’s a vast oversimplification, of course - there is no way to condense the events from thirteen years ago into a neat, tidy statement. It’s evident from the face Smoker makes that he has no idea what to make of it, but it’s the best summary Law has been able to come up with. And even short as they are, the words leave Law drained, speaking them sapping whatever energy he had recovered in Bepo’s embrace. He sighs, threading a hand through his hair and once again missing the familiar fluffiness of his hat. “Look. I’ll tell you. Just… not now.”

He expects Smoker to fight about it. He expects the trademark grumbling and grousing, aggression and accusations. So when Smoker just nods, Law is thrown completely off balance - so much so that he finds himself unable to do anything but stare. “Really? You’re just gonna accept that?”

There comes the customary crabbiness. It immediately puts Law’s mind more at ease, a fact he really doesn’t feel like examining right now, but that he can’t quite banish from his mind. “I’m not unreasonable, Law. We both have a lot on our minds right now, and very little room for mistakes. If you say you’ll tell me, you will. I believe it.”

Law opens his mouth to snark back, but the words get caught in his throat when he realizes the way Smoker is looking at him. The sense of déjà vu registers before anything else, a quick replay of the last time Smoker struck him dumb like this. In the moment Law spends tongue–tied, just as the day before, Smoker gets the better of him with only four words.

“Trust goes both ways.”

God, Law has it bad. 

The first time the two of them met had been a week or so after Law’s induction into the Warlords. Law had been on his way out, more than ready to wash his hands of all things World Government and already regretting the entire plan, when he’d passed Smoker in the dreary, half-built halls of New Marineford. Smoker had caught Law firmly by the arm (making it also the first time that Law found himself caught off-balance by something the man did) and stopped him dead in his tracks.

Smoker had then proceeded to give Law the third degree about Straw Hat, which did not exactly make for the smoothest of starts. But it did ensure that about a month later, when the first of entirely too many calls from the top brass came through to the Tang and Law was faced with the unfortunate reality of his new position, he at least had something to wield against the unlucky Navy buffoon he was forced to work with. A good thing, too, because it turned out that Smoker wasn’t nearly as easy to rile up as the rest of his ilk - or even as easy as his appearance led one to believe. 

That first job lasted barely a day, but it was enough. Law learned several things that day: one, that Smoker was smart; two, that he was dangerous; and three, that he was unlike any Marine Law had ever met… save for one. 

And that made him maddeningly interesting.

Now, two years and thousands of nautical miles later, standing in a dimly-lit Navy infirmary, there are still far too many things unsaid between them. But the pull Law had felt that day is still as strong as it ever was, drawing him into Smoker’s orbit. The difference is that it’s no longer based on a vague feeling and curiosity, but knowledge and craving. And that, if anything about this, should scare Law, but… it doesn’t.

Feeling a smile tug at his lips, Law quickly ducks his head to hide it. “You’re so sentimental,” he accuses, but there’s no denying the obvious affection in the words. 

“Oi, Law.”

Law blinks at the hand that comes up to his chin to tilt his face back up. He allows it without question, suppressing a shiver at the way Smoker’s thumb strokes his bearded chin. It’s so fond, exposing the whole gesture for the gratuitous desire for contact that it is, and god, Law yearns. “Try not to get yourself killed.”

Law huffs a silent laugh, raising a hand to Smoker’s and tapping the back of it lightly. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

Smoker scoffs and his free hand goes to poke at Law’s bandaged ribs, touch light but still sharp enough to force startled gasp past his lips. It’s more surprise than pain, but easily gives away just how tender his injuries still are. “Really? Because last I looked, I absolutely do.”

What a dirty trick. Law gives Smoker a nasty look and bats his hand away, using that same momentum to rise on tiptoes and grab Smoker’s face to press their foreheads together. “I’ll be fine.”

Smoker opens his mouth, probably to argue further, so Law does the logical thing. 

Not for the first time, he’s struck by how frighteningly easy it is to lean in and press his lips to Smoker’s. But then, that’s always been the real deadfall; it’s resisting the pull that requires effort, a constant fight to keep his balance on the brink of a giant chasm. Sooner or later, he’s bound to slip and fall.

Might as well be now.

Kissing Smoker doesn’t feel like falling, though. It just feels… natural. Right. It always has, if Law were to be honest with himself (which he never is when it comes to Smoker, but maybe it’s high time he started). They’ve fit together well from the very beginning, both physically and otherwise. And so now, Smoker isn’t even surprised; he snorts into the kiss, like it’s exactly what he expected to happen, and doesn’t hesitate to meet Law halfway. When Law angles his head to slot their noses together, Smoker tilts his the other way, parting his lips readily in response to Law nipping at them in a silent demand. Law’s fingers slide up and thread through silvery hair where they fit perfectly, while Smoker wraps his arms around, pulling Law close to him and holding him there - not to restrain, but to keep him secure. 

Like the kisses that first night, it’s slow and indulgent, but for once, Law won’t even pretend that he doesn’t want it.

Law is not good with feelings. Most of the time, he tries to just avoid them. He’s terrible at recognizing them and worse at admitting them, and above all, he hates dealing with them. Particularly when they involve other people. He tends to keep things close to his chest until they burst out - usually violently - and prefers to logic his way through as much of life as humanly possible. 

The things Smoker makes him feel defy logic. They’re complicated, layered, intense: an assault on the senses that always leaves Law overwhelmed and exposed in their wake. Even if he were to untangle it, just like explaining who he is and where he comes from, Law has no idea where to begin. 

But he’ll admit one thing: being with Smoker feels good. As for what that means, well… for now, Law can settle for calling it trust.

And maybe that’s enough.